


devil don't go where i make my home

by blanchtt



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: Sounds carries well over the open fields around the homestead, and Waverly sits up, doesn’t give the wolfsong a lick of worry because the Purgatory pack’s never caused anyone much trouble besides overshooting their hunting limits. And, besides, the ancestral Earp house is deep into homestead land. Because of their magic, because Wynonna doesn’t like to be bothered, because of the long-ago curse, no one can come on their land unwelcomed.
Relationships: Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught
Comments: 10
Kudos: 132





	devil don't go where i make my home

**Author's Note:**

> Saw [this cool little edit](https://earpaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/169306658127/vampirewynonna-witchwaverly-and) and just had to write about it, although I did tweak Wynonna's powers to match Waverly's since they're sisters.

Their land is vast and quiet, and Waverly knows that as the heir Wynonna likes it like that. 

There’s nothing to shoot, _ heir_ an old outdated title. But when things go wrong the town turns to her more so than it does its own real sherriff, and so Wynonna twirls her gun on her finger and keeps anyone non-human in line who doesn’t abide by Purgatory’s laws, their family witching sigils on the inside of Peacemaker’s barrel and ammonite placed just right around the homestead.

Waverly sits on the front porch with her like they often do, knows, can feel it, that pull of Purgatory, just over the ridge and a ways down the road.

She’s almost tempted to dress up, to go out, to get in trouble because it’s so delicious to. Wynonna’s not the only Earp daughter capable of getting up to no good.

But Chrissy’s out of town and it’s her night off from working at Shorty’s and her summoning could use some practice, so Waverly cracks open the grimoire in her lap as she originally intended to, reads up as Wynonna drinks her whiskey with her feet on the railing, the two of them settling into another lull of comfortable silence. 

-

She overhears Wynonna get the call, something about a tourist gone missing. They’ve got a police radio at home, for whenever Sheriff Nedley needs someone to handle something plain humans can’t. 

“I’ve sent an officer out,” he says, voice staticky over the radio, and Wynonna blows a long raspberry he can’t hear before pushing down the button of her receiver.

“Copy that, although I’m not sure how much good it’ll do, Neds. Heading out.”

She flicks the radio off before Nedley can get a word in edgewise, and Waverly cleans up the breakfast table quick, tosses forks and knives on the empty plates and leaves that all to soak in the deep kitchen sink. 

She meets Wynonna at the front door, older sister loading bullets in Peacemaker before she holsters it at her side, and Waverly draws on her coat, comes along with her as she always does, pockets full of stones and herbs and small bones, anything she needs to cast and bind, and a litany of spells memorized from since she could read. Doc is out doing something somewhere, and so it’s just the two of them.

They take the jeep at a leisurely pace, and Wynonna parks roughly and kills the engine outside of the woods near the outskirts of town. 

Waverly knows Purgatory history well, and despite the rough and tumble citizens living here, everyone is well aware that too much outside attention to their strange little town—too many strange murders or too many missing people—will spell the end for them. And that, almost more than the law, more than Peacemaker, keeps the balance in Purgatory. 

But someone apparently didn’t get the memo, because the cop that approaches them, boots crunching on the ground, is tall and red-haired, a stetson on her head and looking down at the notebook where, Waverly presumes, she’s taken notes on the crime scene. 

The cop’s not a witch, Waverly can tell as they slip out of the jeep and meet the officer halfway, the cop introducing herself as Officer Haught and shaking hands with Wynonna before turning to her. She and Wynonna can tell their kind, can feel the magic course between them. 

Human is Waverly’s next guess, if this woman’s aligned with Sheriff Nedley and taken on a police uniform. But Waverly hasn’t seen her around before, and there’s a gleam of something in the other woman’s eye, something like mischief that pulls Waverly in as their hands meet, Officer Haught’s grip gentle and warm, and Waverly tries to hide her blush as she lets go of Officer Haught’s hand after a little too long, knows Wynonna will never let her live it down if she sees it. 

“So what’s the deal?” Wynonna asks, all business as she walks away, and Wavelry thanks her lucky stars her sister is too busy staring in morbid fascination at the _ thing _on the ground that’s the whole reason they’re here.

“Tourist, most likely,” Officer Haught says, and both Waverly and Officer Haught walk over to Wynonna and the crime scene not even yet cordoned off with police tape. With those words, it’s like a spell’s broken. Work mode settles over them all once again, and Officer Haught tilts up the brim of her stetson up with the notebook she holds in one hand, the other hooking a thumb over her thick belt as she settles her weight on her left leg. “She’s not local. We can’t get an ID. Think you can you help?”

Wynonna snorts and withdraws Peacemaker from her side, cocks it as she squints down the barrel and surveys the woods around them like she’s waiting for something to pop up.

“Fuck yeah, I can,” Wynonna says, jerking the gun and making a bang noise though she doesn’t shoot it off. Waverly can see Officer Haught’s mouth press into a line, wonders with a smothered giggle if Wynonna’s going to get an impromptu lecture on gun safety. “They don’t call me the Earp heir for nothing, Haught Pocket.”

There’s a moment as what Wynonna’s just said settles, as her sister takes Peacemaker and pushes it back into the holster at the hip, and Waverly can’t help it. She giggles at the name, Wynonna’s smart-ass always adept at finding just the right nickname, can’t stop herself from laughing though a hand goes to her mouth to _ try _ to muffle it. 

But by the looks of it, meeting Officer Haught’s eyes, the other woman’s more nonplussed than irritated. 

“That’s _ Officer _Haught Pocket,” the other woman finally replies with a roll of her eyes, and Wynonna claps her on the shoulder hard, laughing.

“Knew from the moment I saw you that I liked you, Haught Pocket!”

-

She’s got a mug of hot cocoa in her hand, warm against the early fall chill, alone on the porch again.

Wynonna and Doc up to no good in their room no doubt, and that’s _ never _something Waverly wants to get an earful of. It’s what she gets for not planning anything for a Friday evening, so she has only herself to blame. But the case of the young woman in the woods has puzzled her, as the various maps and charts and timelines laid out on the kitchen table prove. 

She’d pored over that until Wynonna had excused herself from their research and Doc had made a poor excuse up to follow her, and now with that knowledge—which, _ ugh!_—her brain’s feeling fried from research while her body feels restless, and so television is out of the question, as is reviewing her grimoires, and unfortunately there's no chatter over the police radio.

So Waverly sits outside on the porch swing, rocking herself gently with the toe of her boots against the ground, the moon’s light silver on the snow, and only realizes it’s a full moon when there’s a far-off howl. 

Sounds carries well over the open fields around the homestead, and Waverly sits up, doesn’t give the wolfsong a lick of worry because the Purgatory pack’s never caused anyone much trouble besides overshooting their hunting limits. And, besides, the ancestral Earp house is deep into homestead land. Because of their magic, because Wynonna doesn’t like to be bothered, because of the long-ago curse, no one can come on their land unwelcomed. 

The howl is pretty and clear, haunting, but nothing new. _ Cherry Garcia_, Waverly thinks. She’d grown up here, as some of the pack had clearly, and so the howl is familiar, if also unknown. She’s got nicknames for them all, and this one’s Cherry Garcia, Waverly knows. Not really—she can only guess as to which Purgatory resident’s daylight voice could be singing, though that doesn’t stop her from knowing them in her own way at night. 

Soon enough Cherry Garcia’s lone howl’s joined by a few more voices of varying depths and lengths. Chocolate Therapy, Chunky Monkey, Phish Food, and the rest of them, Waverly lists off in her head to herself, and she takes a sip of her cocoa, draws the heavy patterned wool blanket closer around her shoulders and listens. 

It must be a language of its own—she doesn’t know any of the werewolves in town, surprisingly. You’d think out of their tiny graduating class at Purgatory High she’d at least have heard of rumors on the downlow, especially as a cheerleader, but for the life of her Waverly can’t remember anyone mentioning it. Pack-like, the most she knows is that they’ve got their own law for their own kind, and thankfully rarely involve the sheriff or Wynonna. 

There’s another howl that slips in, high and reedy but not without its beauty, definitely new, and Waverly frowns, gets out her phone and opens up her research Google Doc entitled _ The Pack _ and jots down a few notes. She types away, trying to memorize the clear and pretty sound, but it slips away suddenly, their pack song ending not long after, and then there is nothing but her and her cocoa and her phone sitting in darkness and silence. 

Oh well, Waverly can only think, and appreciates the song for what it sounded like. _ Sweet Cream_, she decides to call the new wolf, one of her favorite flavors. Their howling might spook the deer and the coyotes, but she’s grown up here, loves the wide open spaces, the huge sky, the cold.

Living anywhere would feel penned in for them, probably, and that Waverly understands. 

-

She’s in town to pick up supplies, the homestead’s fresh veggies and Wynona’s whiskey bottles nearly depleted, when she runs into Officer Haught again. 

Waverly is halfway out of her Jeep when she notices a familiar figure jog past on the sidewalk in front of the supermarket, and the words leave her mouth before she can think, a hand raised in an accompanying wave.

“Officer Haught!”

The call and motion catch Officer Haught’s attention, and the other woman comes to a stop, turns around, eyes wide before she sees Waverly and raises a hand in greeting and walks over. 

“Hey,” Officer Haught replies with a smile, and Waverly leans back against the Jeep’s door, tilts her head just a bit in that way she knows Wynonna calls ‘sickeningly cute’ because small towns don’t throw lots of hot, armed, and red-haired opportunities her way very often.

“Running in this weather, Officer Haught?” Waverly says. “Someone’s dedicated.”

There’s no snow on the ground yet but there’s a definite nip in the air, and Officer Haught’s cheeks are pink with the cold despite her black running pants, beanie and gloves, and Purgatory PD-issued hoodie. 

“Oh, please. It’s just Nicole,” Officer Haught says with a shake of her head, and Waverly can get with that. And then it’s like last time, like it’s natural for her—Nicole places her hands on her hips, stance effortlessly confident but without a hint of ego, like she’s nothing but at ease in her body, and it _ does _something to Waverly, she feels, has her thinking of Nicole in uniform and unbuckling that utility belt of hers and tugging the other woman closer. “And, yeah, well,” Nicole adds with a chuckle, breaking Waverly from her thoughts. “Wynonna eats most of our donuts, but I still get in a few too many during the week.”

She is no stranger to Wynonna’s pilfering behaviour, particularly given that they both work in the BDD office across the hall from the Sheriff's. As for the rest of that sentence, though...

“I find that very hard to believe,” Waverly says, lets her eyes drop and flick over Nicole’s body quick before returning her gaze, smiling. The other woman is nothing but fit and hardly the donut-chasing police officer stereotype.

There’s a knowing look in Nicole’s eyes now, and eagerness, and Nicole grins, tilts her hip and clears her throat before asking, “Do you, uh... Do you want to get a cup of coffee sometime?”

There’s lots of magic she can mess around with that Waverly Knows not to, from her own bad experiences blowing up in her face to Wynonna’s oddly sage advice—fate is one of them, along with life and death. She won’t touch those, flat out. Luck can often go wrong, and so she dabbles but mostly she stays away from luck spells. But love. Oh, boy. Love is _ nothing_ to be messed with. 

She likes to let love simply happen, because it means more that way.

Nicole shifts her stance because Waverly hasn’t said anything yet, eagerness or nervousness or a healthy dose of both plain on her face and in her posture, and it is all at once endearing and a bit of a turn on. 

Waverly pushes off the jeep, just a little too close in Nicole’s personal space for it to be just friendly as she replies sweetly—

“I’d love to.”

-

She’s deep into her rhythm at work, dancing around behind the bar to the music playing over the speakers as she serves up drinks, when one of the patrons mentions him. 

Tipsy even though it’s barely eight at night on a Saturday, the name slips from the young man’s lips amidst some other drunken boasts she doesn’t catch, and the blood near freezes in Waverly’s veins.

_ Bobo Del Rey. _

The thick beer mug in her hand, already slick with condensation, almost slips from her grasp as Waverly sets it down hard on the counter, earning a moody curse from whatever patron she’d been serving as the beer fizzes and spills over the sides. 

Waverly ducks under the bar to where she keeps her phone hidden and swipes it open, texts Wynonna, knows a call would only scare her because Earps only call in emergencies with a capital _ E_. Now that she thinks of it, there’s a good deal more people in the bar than usual, a whole lot of scruffy and unfamiliar faces, and that’s never good news for Purgatory.

Particularly not as one of the men starts up a howl that’s unfamiliar to her, one that’s taken up raucously by the other men in the bar before they get back to laughing and drinking.

She steadies herself, gets back to work for just one more hour because if Bobo’s really back in town than a little undercover surveillance by hers truly could really help out Wynonna. So Waverly puts on her smile and her wave, serves up drinks to wolves and vamps and everyone else that comes through Shorty’s, and has never been happier to see the clock hit nine, to give her shift over to Shorty and slip into the back room and change into her street clothes. 

“You okay?” Nicole asks as they meet in the lobby of The Coffee Club ten minutes later. _ Hell will freeze over before Purgatory gets a Starbucks_, Wynonna had told her years ago when she’d been craving a pumpkin spice latte, and even back then it had seemed like a prediction of Wynonna’s that needed no magic to be able to see would come true.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Wavelry says distractedly, pushing a lock of hair back behind her ear. Wynonna had texted back earlier, asked her to keep her eyes peeled and ears open for anything else while she ran lead on it. “Just a weird thing at work,” Waverly admits, unsure how much she wants to tell the human police officer, at least right now. But she perks up, hooks her arm through Nicole’s and leads them out of the entryway and into the coffee shop proper. “Anyway! Where do you want to sit? I could go for a frappuccino and a croissant. How about you?”

They order and sit in a both and talk, about Nicole’s life and her life and their families and jobs and even down to Nicole’s cat Calamity Jane and her own old pet hamster Pikachu, and it’s almost shocking how quickly time flies by, how her earlier unease over Bobo is something Waverly forgets entirely until the shop starts to close up and they and the last few other patrons are gently shooed out. 

They linger in the parking lot, Nicole shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she obviously seems to be thinking of what to say next and how to say it, gauging the mood, and Waverly slips her phone from her jacket pocket, reads over Wynonna’s texts and replies back with a few quick taps, letting her know where she's going, before swiping it closed and slipping it back into her pocket.

“So,” Waverly says, cutting in on Nicole’s silence and drawing the word out, hands held clasped lightly behind her back as she smiles up at her. “Are you going to invite me to your place for coffee?”

It’s a ridiculous request given they’ve just come from a coffee shop, but Nicole’s quick on the uptake after a momentary stumble at the forwardness. 

“Uh, yes. Coffee!” Nicole says, a grin as big as the Alberta sky on her face now, and she sweeps her arm towards the police cruiser she came in. “Ever been in a Crown Vic before?” Nicole asks, an obvious treat. And it is, but Waverly can’t help but tease—a smart mouth is an Earp trait that can’t be helped.

“Couple times, but never in the front,” Waverly quips, slipping around to the passenger side of the vehicle, and quickly adds, “Kidding!” with a laugh when Nicole gapes at her. 

-

It’s like the whole town feeds off Bobo’s crummy energy, which is part of the reason why Wynonna ran him off all those years ago. Well, firstly was the whole _ probably-most-likely-being-the-one-who-killed-Willa _thing. The only reason he’s still living is because Wynonna got her hands full in the Ghost River Triangle, too busy to hunt him down and that wound too old and still painful.

They’re at the homestead, Doc trying to teach them to play poker, when a call comes crackling over the radio about a situation at Pussy Willows, and they all suit up, Wynonna with Peacemaker, Doc with his guns, and herself with her magic.

When they get there and push open the doors to the dimly lit strip-club, it’s an ugly scene—two men dead, and neither quickly nor cleanly.

“Hell of a lot of blood,” Doc says, eyes wide because he’s only human, if ageless, and Wynonna irreverently begins to sing some line from one of those dumb nineties songs about _ who let the dogs out_. Waverly’s seen entrails herself, worked with rabbit and sheep and deer and all other kinds. But seeing human entrails is another thing, and she gulps down something pushing up from her stomach.

Sheriff Nedley is there too, Nicole besides him and giving her a smile in greeting, and from the hard look that passes between Nedley and Wynonna once Doc elbows her and she sobers up, Waverly knows whatever _ this _is is something that’ll be chalked up to a bar fight instead of Bobo, cleaned up and filed under a small town accident. Can’t let odd cases catch anyone’s ear outside of Purgatory.

And so Waverly cleans up the few remaining wounded with a sigh, a bartender knocked out and forgotten behind the bar. It’s easier and quieter to keep him subdued with a few select words, to set his broken tibia and prepare a poultice for accelerated healing and a cast, than to call the human EMTs. The terrified dancer found hiding in the bathroom gets the same treatment—a sweater for her that Nedley donates and a drink of water to calm her down, Waverly tells the woman, though it’s really a draught to calm and modify her memory just a bit. She’ll wake up at home thinking she’s missed the whole thing, overslept her alarm and luckily missed out on a real bad day at work.

It’s Nicole’s first non-human crime, though she’s not aware of it, and so Waverly almost laughs at the question when they’re all sitting down around the homestead’s table later, dinner cleared and now moved onto drinking. 

“Okay, so who is Bobo Del Rey and why do I need to be afraid of him?” Nicole asks sincerely, dark brows furrowed.

“Werewolf,” Wynonna spits bluntly, sitting with her legs propped up in Doc’s lap and a bottle of whiskey in hand. “Patchy facial hair and fur like a coat even Lady Gaga would deem too much. Soulless eyes and white spots around his neck and, well, god only knows where else,” Wynonna says, making a face before fake gagging. 

“Poliosis,” Waverly offers, and Wynonna snorts.

“Thanks, Waves, but how could he have polio and be this big of a pain in my ass?”

“No, the white patches. It’s called poliosis,” Waverly adds, and reaches up to Nicole’s arm around her shoulder, slips her hand into Nicole’s and squeezes.

It’s become second nature, to touch her. The coffee had been only an excuse that night, and as soon as Nicole had shut the door behind herself Waverly had reached up, hands framing Nicole’s jaw and pulling her down to kiss her. It had been good, in more ways than one. Sated and slick with sweat, they’d curled together after, drifting off to sleep with Nicole’s arm around her waist, and Waverly had _ known_, had known without any need for magic that this was something special.

“_Anyway_,” Wynonna emphasizes after a moment, slamming down her whiskey as she digests that fact. “He’s a dick who’s dedicated to making my life harder. Watch out for him, Tater Haught,” Wynonna says soberly, bottle held out suddenly and pointed at Nicole. “He plays hard and dirty, and not in the fun way.”

“Good to know,” Nicole says with an astounding lack of fear, and as they continue thinking of a plan of attack Waverly thinks ahead on her end nervously, to what spells she can cast to strengthen the magic over their homestead and keep their loved ones safe.

-

It finally snows in earnest and they’ve got no wood stacked beside the barn for the fireplace because they have enjoyed too many nights sitting around the fire and none chopping more wood, so once the sun rises over the horizon on another beautiful morning in Purgatory, she and Doc tie the laces on their boots, zip up their jackets, pick up axes, and march off the homestead’s boundaries and into the nearest strip of woodland. 

The snow is almost knee deep and powdery, making the going rough, and Waverly finds she’s soon huffing and puffing even though Doc with his longer legs goes first, breaking the trail for them. 

“Wynonna better appreciate this,” Waverly says, though in truth she’d miss a good wood-burning fire as much as her sister if she didn’t pull through with this particular chore.

“Days like this make me glad to be alive,” Doc says ahead of her. He makes a noise of interest, a _ humph_, and veers right at the edge of the line of trees, pointing to one in particular. It’s old and dead, sure to be dry inside despite the snow that clumps in its upper branches, and Doc circles it to find the best place to chop, Waverly standing back to let him go at it. 

“Even when Wynonna’s made you sleep on the couch all night?” she asks. She’d come downstairs and had not missed Doc’s form on the couch underneath a couple of blankets before the smell of the coffee she’d started in the kitchen had roused him. Whatever he’d said or done hadn’t been dire, otherwise Wynonna would have kicked him out of the house, and so Waverly teases lightly.

Doc looks back over his shoulder and winks at her before hefting his axe. “Can’t have a sunrise without a sunset, Miss Waverly.”

“Hm,” Waverly says noncommittally.

Doc gets a couple good swings in, chipping away at the base of the tree before he stops, rigid, and mutters, “Aw, hell.”

Waverly thinks it’s about the tree for a moment, wonders if she should step out of the way, if it’s going to fall somewhere Doc didn’t plan it to. But she takes a step back, away from behind Doc, and sees what has him clutching his axe a little tighter, brows furrowed and mouth a hard line below his mustache.

The dark hulking wolf with white patches that materializes from between trees can be none other than Bobo Del Rey. Despite being two against one just in numbers, Waverly’s never been this close to a werewolf and they are _big_, like _two-against-one might be more than a fair fight_ big. Bigger than a normal wolf has any right to be, and the growl in Bobo’s throat thrums deep through her body, heavy as the passing of a train on tracks, and Waverly raises her axe though Doc steps forward to put himself between her and Bobo. 

“Git back now, I say!” Doc says fiercely, and there’s a pistol in his free hand now too, the weapon always tucked away at his side. It’ll do nothing but slow Bobo down, but it’s all they’ve got, Waverly realizes, and she lets out an _oh shoot_, caught off-guard, and tries to think of some spell, any spell, that’ll help.

But as Waverly keeps her eyes on him, runs through the veritable grimoire of spells she’s got memorized in her head, she sees Bobo’s ear flick left, and then his huge head follows slowly, and there’s _ another_ wolf and _fudge nuggets_, they’re going to die and she never even told Wynonna who really puked all over the inside of the Jeep in tenth grade. 

Hint: not Champ like Waverly told her it was.

But Bobo’s dark wolf lips draw back, barring glistening white teeth as he growls, and this new auburn wolf steps forward, puts itself between both Doc and Bobo, sideways to seem bigger and hackles raised as it growls back. 

Nothing, Waverly knows, gets between Bobo Del Rey and what he wants except for Peacemaker. She drops down onto her knees on the snow, reaches into her pocket and comes up with handfuls of bird bones and feathers, crystals and herbs, casts them on the ground with intent and eyes closed and recites a spell. She wouldn’t put it past the auburn wolf to hold its own weight in a fair fight, but in the middle of nowhere and with a total dickhead on their hands, there’s no chancing it, and there’s high and vicious sounds, upsetting sounds from both werewolves as they tear into each other, hidden from her eyes at least where she kneels behind Doc. 

“Bless this circle and keep me protected. No unwanted entities are welcome here, only pure divine beings invited into this space,” Waverly whispers quickly, more quickly than she’d care to when dealing with magic, but Nicole—and it is Nicole here keeping Bobo off them—lets out a high pitched squeal of pain, and Waverly grabs onto that feeling inside her, asks like she’s never asked before as she finishes, “The circle is cast, so mote it be!”

There’s a shimmer of magic and a bang, a snarl of frustration from Bobo as he’s knocked backwards suddenly, a white circle of magic on the blood-splattered snow encircling them and excluding him. It’s not exactly offensive, but they don’t need that right now. Waverly crawls forward to Nicole, uncaring about how cold the snow is because they just need a moment for them not to get torn to shreds and for her to reach for her cellphone, to call Wynonna and have her bring Peacemaker and back-up. 

They don’t get the chance to, though. 

Bobo doesn’t exactly leave with his tail between his legs, but he does leave, stopping at the line of the trees to watch them like he’s leaving a message before slinking away slowly, and Doc keeps watch, pistol drawn, as Waverly sighs in relief, draws Nicole’s big heavy wolf head into her lap.

“Come on, Nicole,” Waverly says encouragingly, laying a hand on her muzzle and feeling Latin come to her lips easy as English to stop the bleeding at least. She’s got some deep wounds, and it’s common first aid knowledge that you never move someone injured. With werewolves, you never let them change. Nicole will heal faster like that than human. “Hang in there,” Waverly murmurs. “We’re going to get you home.”

Doc kneels down too, scoops her up with a grunt because there’s no way Waverly’s going to be able to do it, and Waverly tries to keep a hand on Nicole, on anywhere she can reach, the rough of her neck or her flank or even a paw, as they struggle through the deep snow and back towards the homestead. 

-

Nicole sleeps it off in her room, and when she comes to early the next morning Waverly knows it by the slow footsteps coming down the old wooden stairs. 

Waverly looks up, hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea, and sees Nicole’s in a pair of Wynonna’s pajama pants and a soft, spare flannel top of Doc’s not quite buttoned all the way up. Somehow she makes even that look dashing, wavy hair rumpled from sleep and limping.

She’d patched and stitched Nicole up as much as the other woman’s clotted fur had allowed her last night, laid her in bed, chosen spare clothing from amongst what they had that seemed like something Nicole could be comfortable in once she woke and dressed. After that there had been nothing much else to do, and Waverly had gotten little sleep over the night, a lot of it spent pacing and researching any spell she could find for healing and warding off infection.

But now, with Nicole saying a quiet _hey_ and smiling, back in human form though bruised and battered, Waverly leaves her tea, meets Nicole at the doorway to the kitchen and steers her towards the living room and the couch instead, sits her down before pulling up a chair herself.

“Thank you, Nicole,” Waverly starts, though the words seem hollow. It could have gone down a whole lot worse than it did, and a _thank you _ doesn’t seem like nearly enough to express her gratitude.

“Just doing my duty,” Nicole replies brightly, always the police officer, but there’s a wink there for Waverly too, more personal, and Waverly’s heart flutters. 

“You’re Sweet Cream,” Waverly says, the knowledge dawning on her and getting her a raised brow from Nicole.

“Beg pardon?”

“The new wolf,” Waverly explains, almost reaches up to slap her palm against her own forehead. Of course that’s not the werewolf’s real name, and the only other person she’s shared her Google Drive research with has been Wynonna and Doc. “I heard you singing, I think,” Waverly explains. “Before Bobo came back.”

At that, Nicole thinks before nodding. “Got me there,” the other woman replies with a laugh. “So, what do you think of my voice?”

Waverly laughs, laughs with relief at the fact that Nicole is okay despite the large, ugly bruise on her collarbone and the cut on her cheek and everything else her clothing hides, laughs that Nicole is magic and so is she and there is nothing to hide anymore, and laughs that she’s found someone so charmingly, unendingly brave.

Waver gets up, finds what she needs from her stock of potions and salves in the kitchen and comes back, takes her seat again opposite Nicole, lets her thigh slip between Nicole’s in comfort. 

“Can I ask you something?” Waverly asks, a whispered spell under her breath making sure the salve in the jar is warm before she dips her fingers in it. She motions for Nicole to hold out her arm, and smooths the concoction over the quickly-heating bite mark on Nicole’s forearm. It’s ragged but healing, not too hot or pink, and Waverly thanks her lucky stars for that, though she doesn't know much about werewolf physiology and scarring. 

“Anything,” Nicole says, and there is that flutter again, the one that tells Waverly that when Nicole says something she _ means _it.

“Other than when Bobo Del Rey’s in town,” Waverly asks. It’s something she’s always wondered, when she’d heard the pack run by the homestead on occasion. She’s not particularly a runner herself, unlike Nicole—and, wow, that makes so much more sense now—but it had seemed nice, to practically fly through nature with your family by your side, singing. Waverly twists the cap back on her salve, finishes, “What’s it like to go running at night?”

There’s a pause before Nicole chuckles, answers, “Amazing.”

Wavelry puts the little jar of salve down on the ground, and then carefully, so carefully in case this isn’t okay because Nicole hurts, because she might not want to, rests her hands on the couch just above Nicole’s shoulders and slips onto her lap.

They don’t talk about it, at least not right now—that she’s the heir’s younger sister, that she’s had Nicole’s scent on her for a while, that yesterday Bobo’s tried to send them a two-fold message that makes Waverly’s skin crawl. 

“What about Wynonna and Doc?” Nicole asks, breath heavy even as she dips her head into the cleavage that their current position offers her, hand sliding over Waverly’s hip and down to grasp at her ass and pull her closer, and Waverly breathes out happily, arches against her best baby and smiles.

“Out,” Wavelry assures her, and helps Nicole lift her shirt over her head. 

There are still aches and pains, bruises and cuts, and even though Nicole manages to get her in nothing more than her jeans and that _ does _things to her, Waverly stills the other woman’s hands, slides down her body until her knees hit the hardwood floor. 

Nicole doesn’t have her utility belt on like in her fantasy, but it’s still a thrill to untie the drawstring keeping Nicole’s pajama pants up, to slide them down her hips and find her bare and dip her face between her warm thighs, to find Nicole wet for her and hear her moan softly in pleasure and begin to relax in Waverly’s hands and on her tongue.

Waverly works the thought into each lave of her tongue, not magic but still magical, that Nicole is here and grasping at her hair and arching up into her mouth, her high keening filling the living room, and Waverly laps quicker, harder, and it’s her steady_ I love you_ and her hands on her hips, bringing Nicole closer, that brings Nicole to pleasure.

-

Once Wynonna comes back from dealing with whatever’s occupied her for the past few days just outside of Purgatory at the very edge of the Ghost River Triangle and gets the full explanation from them of what almost happened out in the woods, Wynonna kicks his ass.

“No one,” Wynonna says with a steely look in her eyes once they’ve tracked him down and cornered him, Bobo glowering at her from the other end of Peacemaker, defiant to the last. “_No one_ fucks with my baby girl or my baby daddy.”

And then before Bobo can get in some rude comments as usual, he’s dealt with with a single well-placed bullet.

It’s over, and the other part of what Wynonna says, a small part of Waverly realizes—which,_ wow _—is a conversation for another day. For right now, there is Nicole pressing up against her leg, fur coarse and shaggy and panting hard after the chase, one paw help up in limping pain, and Waverly weaves her fingers into it, holds her close as Bobo’s dark blood pools on the dirty snow.

“Excellent shot, Miss Wynonna,” Doc says, taking a celebratory drink from his flask before Wynonna steals it away, and Waverly watches, laughing lightly, as Wynonna pulls deep at it and swallows before titling her face up and faux-wolf howling to the sky, one that disintegrates very quickly into raucous laughter and high fives. 

No more guilty thoughts of Willa left unavenged. No more looking twice over her shoulder before going into town, into the woods, into work. No more torn fur and bone-deep wounds on her best baby, Waverly thinks, because Bobo is gone for _good_ and Wynonna’s mood is infectious, and Waverly kneels down, throws her arms around Nicole’s neck and buries her face in her warm, shaggy fur.

-

With the head of the troublesome snake cut off, the local pack chases the remainder of Bobo’s roughriders out, or so Nicole tells her over dinner and drinks at her place later. 

“Can’t abide lawbreakers,” Nicole says as she pushes back from the dinner table, ever the police officer and now Purgatory pack member, and Waverly grins. 

“Oh, really?” she drawls, an idea forming quick as silver. Wavelry stands and sways over to Nicole, slides a leg over her lap and settles there comfortably, thinks it might just be her second favorite place on earth. “I might have some bad news for you, Officer Haught,” Waverly continues, curling a lock of red hair around her index finger and leaning in close, ghosting her lips over Nicole’s and pulling away, watching as Nicole follows her, hazy-eyed.

It thrills her to no end that they have not lost even an ounce of passion since their first time together. With Nicole there is only want, no second thoughts or half-aware motions, only a warm and insatiable need to touch her and have Nicole touch her back.

“Except one lawbreaker,” Nicole amends in a mumble, her hands finding their place low on Waverly’s hips, and that, her words and the way Nicole stands suddenly and carries Waverly to bed, suits Waverly just fine.

She’s deposited on Nicole’s bed carefully, Nicole following suite soon after, a thigh hitching high between her own and working a slow, steady pace as warm up as Nicole’s lips make their way down her neck, finger tentative under the hem of her shirt before slipping under, confident now and splaying across her ribs and then up, cupping her breasts. 

She loves Nicole’s hands—never raised in anger, only warm and strong and a small shade larger than her own, given Nicole’s a good several inches taller—whether they’re on the small of her back, gentleman-like at some sort of Purgatory PD function together, or under her shirt languidly teasing a nipple as they sit and watch Netflix together.

Waverly tilts her forehead against Nicole’s shoulder, hands slipping around and then up Nicole’s back, clutching her to her, little gasps escaping her already because how much she_ wants _Nicole does things to her, and then Nicole is disentangling them both gently and sitting back on her heels, reaching for the bottom of her t-shirt and yanking it up and over her head before tossing it aside and sliding back up against her body. 

As Nicole rocks against her, each movement bringing a tug of pleasure, Waverly focuses, fingers finding the clasp of Nicole’s fancy bra and unhooking it quickly, knocks it out of the way as Nicole’s hands tug Waverly’s top off, and then it’s skin to skin how Nicole likes it, at least once Nicole divests her of her bra, Waverly realizes, and Waverly arches and moves in waves, can’t help but moan at the feeling of Nicole’s breasts against her own, nipples taught, the flat of her stomach and Nicole’s shoulders pushing against hers, weight holding her in place as Nicole whispers simultaneously _is that okay?_

“Baby,” Waverly responds, palming a breast, a word of pleasure and an encouragement all in one, and that motivates Nicole, has Nicole stop laying kisses at the juncture of her neck and shoulder while cupping her breast, has her reach down for the button of Waverly’s jeans now with heavy breath instead. 

Her skinny jeans are tugged off and lost somewhere in the room. Where, she hardly cares because Nicole is panting her name, _Waverly_ over and over, and the bed isn’t big enough to accommodate them both and so Nicole kneels on the floor, drags her closer to the edge, and _oh_, Nicole’s tongue licks up her and Waverly sees stars even as she closes her eyes. How she’s managed to get so lucky, she hardly knows.

Nicole works her up until that crescendo is almost there, and while that’s nice and all, there is also Nicole who is a part of this too and Waverly has never been a selfish lover, so Waverly reaches down, cards fingers through Nicole’s wavy hair and tugs her away just enough to ensure that Nicole hears her plead, shamelessly needy as she tilts her hips up and whines—

“_Inside_, baby.”

And so Nicole’s body is against hers once more, tongue soothing at her neck before Nicole bites, not too rough but enough for Waverly to feel her teeth and know tomorrow there’s going to be a hell of a hickey to cover up, and whether it’s just Nicole or a little bit of wolf in her Waverly doesn’t care, laughs and feels Nicole’s fingers slick over her clit one last time before slipping inside, and this, _this_, Waverly thinks, biting her lip pleasurably as Nicole moves over her, _in_ her, is surely her favorite place in the world.

-

They make their way leisurely to the homestead, to Doc on the porch smoking and Wynonna upstairs, pacing in the room that used to be Waverly’s and that, four months later, is now finally being decorated for the future little Earp. Time management has never been an Earp skill, and apparently neither is it a Holliday one.

“Shit, shit, shit. It’s gonna have _hands_,” Wynonna says, one of her own hands lost in her dark mane of hair as she runs fingers through it, a mixture of panic and excitement on her face, and the other on her stomach. It’s a small bump as of yet, but there, and Waverly feels happiness flutter inside herself every time at the sight of her big sister, at the thought of a little Earp running around the homestead eventually.

“That’s generally the case,” Nicole deadpans from beside her, and Wynonna whirls on her, pointing with a finger that jabs at the air between them.

“You’re gonna be doing a whole lot of babysitting and diaper changing, Auntie Tater Haught,” Wynonna says darkly, like it’s some sort of horrible promise Nicole’s going to have to bear witness to when the time finally comes, but Waverly can see from Nicole’s expression that it’s far less of a threat than Wynonna intends it to be. 

“Have you picked out a name yet?” Waverly asks, cutting in, and leaves the charm she’s made on the dresser since there’s no crib yet. It’s made to lay over the headboard—a string of herbs for health and life and happiness and Lilith’s protection. There will be Wynonna there to teach her niece the craft, because Waverly is sure it’s a girl, can feel her magic telling her so as much as it must be telling Wynonna. But she will be there as well for reference, along with Auntie Nicole to make sure her niece grows up brave and chivalrous.

“It’s a secret,” Wynonna says proudly, smirk on her face and hands on her hips, and Waverly can only sigh and shake her head in amusement before Wynonna stomps downstairs, bemoaning the fact that there is no whiskey bottle in her hand and will not be for several more months. 

“I’m going to be an aunt,” Waverly says in the silence that follows, turning to Nicole. The concept is still one that amazes her, and more so now that there is actual baby stuff in the house, tiny little clothes and a few plush dolls that people have given Wynonna in preparation.

“You’re going to be an aunt,” Nicole repeats happily, smiling, and Waverly holds out her hands, asks with the wordless motion for Nicole to reach out and take hers, which her girlfriend does. She may be living in their home now, Nicole’s former home, Waverly knows. But that doesn’t make her any less of an Earp, and neither does the lack of blood that connects Nicole and whatever Wynonna decides to name her girl.

“And _you’re_ going to be an aunt!” Waverly says, squeezing her hands in emphasis, because like it or not Nicole is family now, has been for a while, and whatever Wynonna spawns will be Nicole’s niece as much as her own, blood or not.

“Yeah,” Nicole says, and there’s a different kind of hazy look to her eyes now before Waverly reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss her slowly.

And so they follow Wynonna downstairs, hand in hand, settle around the table as Doc tries once again to teach them poker, as Wynonna tells a totally inappropriate story about the time she won at strip poker that makes Doc go red and Doc calls for a rematch, as the police radio stays silent for the night, a welcome break from all the work they put in lately given last week’s vamp infestation. 

“You in?” Wynonna asks them both, a gleam in her eye, and Nicole doesn’t hesitate.

“Hit me,” Nicole says, and Doc smiles widely as Waverly nods, dealing cards to the four of them. It must be an Earp trait, Waverly thinks, a lucky one for once, for things to fall together so chaotically the way they do and yet still come out so right. 

Nicole’s arm around her shoulder squeezes lightly, free hand showing her her cards once she slides them off the table, the two of them all in together,_ where you go, I go_, and Waverly curls closer against Nicole’s side, breathes in her familiar scent, and smiles.


End file.
